


English Basement

by Poose



Series: General Dynamics [4]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Banter, Barebacking, Cock Worship, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Riding, Summer, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 19:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6342622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington and Hamilton skip out on work early one afternoon. Sex is had. There may be feelings, which I did not ask for, and I am sure neither did you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	English Basement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peakgay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peakgay/gifts), [gonfalonier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonfalonier/gifts).



Every month in the District brings some honking fresh heap of bullshit with it: March and April are the cherry blossoms, and then there’s middle school trips, the Mall and Metro choked with them, in matching attire, a chattering, pimply cluster of mustard yellow, or bright orange, or palest blue. Then June, July, August, bring the tourist outpouring; all of slow-moving, tennis-shoe wearing, Big-Bus-Riding America, in its patriotic t-shirts and three dollar bottles of Deer Park bought, optimistically, at one end of the Mall, by a family of Texans who had probably, in their lives, only ever walked the distance from one corner of a Super Target to another, and who were, even now, creeping into the street and his fucking bike lane.

“On your right,” he shouts, and a middle aged woman with chunky blonde highlights and sensible shoes squeals and jumps back to the safety of the curb.

“Tourists,” Alex says, peddling furiously to make the light, which he sails through just as a red Mini Cooper with Virginia plates cuts a sharp left and careens in front of him. “Mother _fucker_!"he screams, after the receding car, and flips the driver the bird. He should get the plate number, report it. He won’t. He’s late for a thing; he’s always, these days, late for a thing.

The lunchtime New America talks are usually interesting; more importantly for Alex, they’re catered, and like, private-sector, tech-money catered, which is a huge leap forward from anything he’s going to get within the one-block radius from his office. This, he’s decided, is as far as he’s willing to walk during the lunch rush. There’s better stuff a few blocks west, but bigger crowds, too, and the pressure to join people at restaurants, where there’s waitstaff to deal with and conversations to be had, other than shop talk, which is for the most part, safe. He’ll pass, thanks, finds it easier to rattle off a few dozen emails while he listens to a podcast from the sanctity of his own office.

The talks are much less interesting than he thought they would be, but he’s sat back far enough that the cameras don’t catch him. He looks okay, respectable, from his morning meeting down at BLS. He’d picked his shirt up on the way in, fresh from the cleaners, biked there with the plastic wrap rustling against his handbars. He put it on after he’d locked up, took the balled up tie from his pocket, preknotted, and fixed that around his neck.

Everyone else is on their phones, ostensibly to follow along with the hashtag (#slatenewamerica) but even the backchannel is boring. He has a thought, then smirks as he types without looking down, pretending to be engrossed in the discussion about sentient technology.

_hey_

_Hello?_

_what are you doing rn_

_?_

_right now_

_I’m just leaving a meeting at the Pentagon._

_Why?_

_i’m at a thing, i’m bored_

_I have work. You have work._

_summer thursday?_

Alex looks up. The moderator is introducing a new set of panelists. Everybody in the room claps, listlessly. A man in a navy blue blazer pushes back from his widespread legs, stands, and leaves. On his way out, he takes the last can of Dr. Pepper. Only diet drinks remain.

_Aren't you going back to the office?_

_i’ll take a half day. come over._

It’s funny, texting with George, like he can hear the audible sigh, the admission of defeat in the words as they come through.

_One hour._

Alex grins. He gets up to leave and grabs a diet Pepsi on his way out of the building and back into the sticky air of summer on the Potomac.

Forty minutes later he is home, stripped out of his clothes, which are left in a pile on the kitchen floor. The tie with its prepared knot now lies across a pile of mail, opened and unopened, six unread copies of his alumni magazine that he’s been meaning to catch up on (one of them has John’s wedding photos in it, which means he’ll have to save it for his mother to look at). He’s just exiting the tiny bathroom, fresh from the shower, when the lock turns.

George has a key. To Alex’s shitty, cricket-infested, unventilated little English basement, which he really should move out of. He can afford a better place, one where the bathroom isn’t located off the kitchen (pipes, Aaron had told him, it's all about the location of the water pipes), and where the bedroom isn’t weirdly _in_ the fucking kitchen itself. But if he puts the bed in the front room, it faces Rhode Island rather than the back garden, and that means he has to remember to close the blinds and/or put on pants. Fuck pants.

‘You called in?” George says, coming in to the bedroom/dining room/kitchen, already removing his own tie, and then jacket, as he watches Alex towel at his wet head with a towel that really needs to be bleached or, possibly, burned. It smells like mildew. Everything in this basement smells like mildew. The mildew smells like mildew.

“Yeah,” Alex answers, watching him untie his shoes and place them, with military precision, underneath the side of his bed. George stretches out and folds one hand behind his head. “Nicole was annoyed until I told her I’d eaten the egg salad at a catered lunch, and then she asked if I needed Immodium, and then I told her I had to go immediately and I’d submit the time off request when I could get to my computer, but it might be a little while.”

“Egg salad,” says George, and makes a face.

“I know." He shakes his head. “But it was disgusting enough that she won’t bother with follow-up. I could probably go in late tomorrow. It’s Friday. Could telework.”

“Mmm,” he says, closing his eyes. “Summer Friday, lucky you.”

“Hey,” Alex snaps his fingers. “Don’t go falling asleep on me, you just got here.”

“I’m just resting my eyes,” George says, “I’m not going to sleep.”

“Better not.” Alex opens the fridge to see what's there. It's not promising: most of a styrofoam cup of tamarindo, which has melted down until it tastes like grape juice, but which he doesn’t want to throw away, half a dozen bottles of wine in various states of being finished, a few miscellaneous beers.

He brings George the nicest of the beers without asking if he wants it. "Thanks," he says, and sits up a bit to drink. He takes a long pull and then sets the bottle aside and lays back down. 

"So," he begins, and then trails off. He detests the talking part of all this. It's such a fucking mood killer, though of course it's unrealistic to expect your partner to magically divine what you need. He hates asking, hates being asked even more. He wants to be told what to do so he can snarl back; he wants to be held down so he can bite at George’s wrists; he wants everything done to him, so he no longer has to think.

Today, though. Maybe it was the turkey, the after effects of tryptophan and glucose, or the heat, or the humidity, but he doesn’t feel like making George angry. Doesn’t want to needle him about Pakistan, or Mogadishu, or charter schools, or no-bid contracts, or Guantanamo, or inheritance taxes, or weekend pills, or how he lives a bullshit buttoned-up life that looks a lot, to Alex, like a lie.

George slits one eye open and scrutinizes Alex. “What did you really have for lunch?” he asks, curiously.

“Turkey,” Alex says, dropping the wet towel onto the floor. George gives him a look, but it’s his apartment. His mess.

He crawls over on top of George, naked and clean. He straddles him and plops his weight down so their groins meet. George is wearing a nice suit, heavy for summer, and Alex grinds down on him.

“Mmm,” George says, again, lazily. “How was it?” He sweeps his hands across Alex’s lower ribs and then, with a light brushing touch, fits them around his waist. Below him, he feels his own dick take an active interest in the proceedings.

“I don’t know,” Alex says, playing idly with the top of George’s zipper. “It was free. It was fine.”

George laughs suddenly at that, and Alex smiles along with him. “I’m serious,” he adds, though he has to tamp down a little swell of pleasure at making this solemn man laugh. Alex works too hard, but George is out-and-out serious. He has three moods, as far as Alex can tell: quiet and contemplative; quiet and frustrated; and heated anger, which, to be fair, he seems to be an expert at eliciting. A smile is a rarity.

“I want what I always want,” he says, fiddling with the hem of George’s shirt. He allows his fingertips to trace patterns on the smooth skin of George’s stomach.

“Has anyone ever told you,” George says, bending his knees and then moving Alex’s hands to the center of his chest so that, together, they can unbutton his dress shirt, “that you have a serious oral fixation?”

“Are you complaining about it?” Alex bites his bottom lip as the shirt peels open at the front.

“Never,” George answers, undoing his cuffs. He rolls from one side to the other so that he can pull the shirt out from under him without dislodging Alex. It feels stupidly considerate. His throat prickles. Pollen, fucking pollen.

Alex rubs him through his pants and grinds down against him at the same time. He’s stupidly hot for George’s dick. It’s a dick that would be worth, just barely, voting Republican for. It's that nice. 

“Come up here,” George says, tapping the flat of his palm to his undershirt.

Alex, who is by now very happily occupied with tracing the outline of George’s erection in his pants, pouts. “I’m busy,” he answers, curtly, and squeezes.

“Humor me?” He taps his hand again and Alex goes up.

“Take this off, at least,” he tugs George’s undershirt up over his head.

“Always rushing me,” says George, and Alex bites his lip as retribution.

“I can’t help it,” he says, between forceful kisses, those big hands roving all over his back. It’s nice, actually, the lazy making out without rushing to the finish. Some days he’s so anxious for it that he can’t enjoy the ride.

“These too,” he says, indicating the pants. Alex brushes his damp hair out of his eyes. George undoes his belt and lifts his hips to pull his pants off.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Alex says, even though it sounds dumb, it’s true. George is all smooth skin and defined muscle, his dick an inviting bulge inside his black boxer briefs.

“Slow down,” George chides, when Alex starts to get impatient. He goes back to rubbing until he's given a little nod, a private signal. "Go ahead," he says, and Alex helps him take his boxers off, too. The reveal is beautiful; it's better than a bedtime story. 

The flicks of his tongue over the head are for show more than anything else. They’re a tease, but they get George’s attention.

“That good?” he asks, and Alex hums his assent.

The position is awkward, with them both on the bed, but the floor is tile and the mattress is soft, and George cards his fingers through Alex’s hair so that he can see, and that knowledge kicks in his showmanship, his need to perform and show off. 

George’s hand threads through his hair, letting it fall in front of his face only for him to push it right back again. Alex is getting himself reacquainted with this sweet spot that falls right between the base of George’s dick and the place where his balls begin. There are times when they won’t even fuck, because Alex wants only to hang out there, with that steady hand in his hair, and George hissing in through his teeth every now and then and saying, like he still doesn’t know how they ended up here, “Damn, son, damn.”

Alex raises himself up on his hands, repositions himself to the left so he can perform a little more. He uses his hands, both hands, to point George’s cock in the direction of his open mouth, and lets the head pop out into his cheek, spit running all down the side where he can’t quite manage to close his lips all the way. The hand on his head grows a little heavier, George pushing on him, only for a second, before letting go. Alex lifts his lips off, slurps up the spit through his teeth with a wet sucking noise, and, then, from this new angle, returns to his makeout session with the shaft of George’s dick while he rubs an open palm over the tip.

It’s sensitive; George hisses. Alex closes his hand around the head, tugs.

“Where’d you learn to suck dick like that?” George wonders with a choked sound, and it doesn’t sound like dirty talk, it sounds like a real question.

“Hm?” Alex says, doing the cheek thing again. George touches the bulge there, presses against it. He sucks up some more spit. “I dunno, high school?”

George's voice cracks. “The fuck?”

“I lost my virginity when I was seventeen,” Alex says, and starts sucking a hickey just below George’s waist.

“Ow,” George says. Alex lays a bite on top of the hickey, then sticks his nose into George’s pubes. God, he smells good. His spine arches forward. His voice, when it comes out, is muffled. “But then I didn’t have sex with anyone, and I mean, _anyone_ , until senior year of college. Like five years?”

“But?”

Alex shrugs, unsure if George registers the movement or not. He taps his hand against George’s wrist.

“Already?” he asks, “You tapping out?”

“No, you dumbass,” Alex snorts, “the drawer.”

George leans over and retrieves a bottle from the nightstand. Alex is tight because he’s small, wide hips but a tiny ass, but he can take what you throw at him. It’s George who needs the lube. He also needs to be reassured that it’s okay to enjoy being penetrated, that it doesn’t make you _gay_ even if it makes you _gay_ …

It’s complicated, he knows that much.

“So,” he says, conversationally, as he clicks the bottle cap open with his teeth. “So I lost my virginity, and then I had senior year, and then I went off to college, and all I did was suck cock and study. Pretty awesome time in my life.”

While he's talking, Alex has managed to get the first knuckle of one finger inside. George’s eyes are scrunched tightly shut like he’s in pain. He won’t say a word; the man could be bleeding internally and wouldn’t think to mention it. Fucking stoic piece of shit. 

“It was great,” he adds, working the second knuckle in, and then he waits, allows George to adjust to the intrusion. His cock flags a little; Alex lets it. It’s okay. He'll catch up when it's time.

He rubs a thumb over George’s testicles, palms them. Wiggles his finger until he finds the right spot. When he does, George’s body goes rigid and he exhales, a funny little sigh. 

“I guess you didn’t do a lot of fucking in high school either,” he says, which isn't very nice but happens, he's sure, to be true. Maybe he fucked girls; maybe he played football. He's never asked. Alex laps at his thigh, nips the skin there, and then, with the one hand he has free, squirts directly from the bottle onto the head of George’s dick, which is now plumping out nicely again. He catches it in his hand, pulls up in a long, thorough stroke from root to tip, all the while gently working that other finger in and out and up. George’s testicles dangle down to rest in his palm; Alex licks them with a pleased little noise that has him, after some skilled work, twitching in his hand.

He works George to the brink like that three separate times, until his head is thrown back with gritted teeth and he pleads, “No more, no more.”

“Aw,” Alex whines, as he allows himself to be pushed away.

“Get up here,” George says, his voice fucked out and hoarse.

“Fuck yes,” says Alex, scrambling to listen. The prep is quick. He's been ready since the shower, and it only takes him a second. 

"Jesus," George says, when Alex sits down on his dick. The stretch burns; if there was any part he wishes he could prolong, it would be that. It's a more subtle hurt than a smack or a slap. Feels right, somehow, too. 

"That good?" he asks, dropping the bottle onto the bed. It rolls out of reach. George's neck is taut with tension, thrown back against the pillows. His pecs flex, probably unintentionally, and Alex rests his hands on them for leverage, feels all that power cordoned and restrained beneath him. 

"Goddamn," he manages, as Alex begins to move. "Goddamn, son."

Alex rides him, rides that perfect dick on top of his covers, lube smearing messily all over his ass cheeks until he yelps on the downstroke: too deep, too perfect. He slows, falls down exhausted onto George’s broad chest. George tugs him forward until Alex’s head is resting right below his chin. He pinions both of Alex’s hands in his own, right at the small of his back, and says, “I gotcha, I gotcha,” and then Alex is being fucked up into, and held down from below, and George is so relentless, so precise, that it is maybe no more than forty-five seconds of that relentless drilling that his ass is on _fire_ and Alex shouts, “I’m gonna, I’m gonna,” and George snarls against his ear, “Do it, son, Alex, come on, God you’re fucking tight,” and Alex is breathing, and laughing, and coming, and announcing that he’s coming, all at the same time.

They lay there for a long moment until George is soft enough for it to hurt. He winces when he pulls out, and Alex stays there, George's hands on his sweaty hips, his head buried in the crook of his neck, until he finds a position against his bulk. He yawns. 

"Did you fuck dudes in high school?" he asks, looking at George's face in repose. 

"Shhh," he says, tugging Alex closer. "Talk less." 

**Author's Note:**

> We have these two horrible monsters to blame for getting feelings into my porn. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Rental by peakgay](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6299284)
> 
>  
> 
> [Up and Up by gonfalonier](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6101267)
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you're both pleased with yourselves.


End file.
